


Roaring Things.

by nitroish



Series: burr. [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Human Disaster Aaron Burr, Minor Violence, Other, burr is shot twice is all, doesnt rly pose a real threat i guess?, have fun, i wrote it awhile ago and edited a few things so it flowed better but otherwise i just left it as is, idk what it is tho rly i was just looking for grammar things i needed to fix, not exactly a good fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:30:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitroish/pseuds/nitroish
Summary: Hamilton is chanting his name.





	Roaring Things.

**Author's Note:**

> \- burr is shot and doesnt die  
> \- blah blah hes taken care of washington has minor appearance  
> \- blah blah something something idk
> 
> this isnt very long. nor am i very proud of it. but here you are, so i hope you enjoy!  
> ah yes, i remember when i used to capitalize things. tht was so long ago. now i speak in lowercase gay.

Hamilton is chanting his name. He knows this, but he can’t hear him. His ears are ringing and his chest is tight. He can’t breathe and he’s drowning in nothing. He sees more than hears someone yelling. Lips moving, teeth grinding on one another, and he shivers at the thought of the sound. They are yelling orders that Aaron can’t form words to. That he can't process. Hamilton turns his head back up to him and Burr sees that he’s shaking, feels his shaking hands hovering over his cheeks and Burr hears him loud and clear through the ringing in his ears. He was chanting his name. Hamilton is chanting his name and Burr does his best to speak. They were being shot at. It's dangerous to stop and sit here, Hamilton not watching his own back. Chanting for him to /hold on, god damnit, you can’t fucking do this you asshole./ in the middle of chaos. Burr closes his eyes and gets smacked for it. He’s cold and his leg and arm hurt. He can’t breathe, even as Hamilton tells him to breathe. He opens his eyes and stares up with hazy vision at the sky. Sees clouds and a blue sky. He remembers walking around, remembers thinking it was a nice day out this day. Someone kneels down on his other side and presses a hand to his shoulder. Burr sees red, white and then nothing. Hands are removed from his body, his face. He hears someone shout and then he’s gone.

.

When he wakes, he’s burning. Everything hurts and he can’t see even though his eyes are open. He wheezes and writhes on the cot, trying to kick the suffocating weight on his chest off. He wheezes when his shoulder is bent and he closes his eyes. Refuses to tear up at the pain. And then someone quickly lights a lantern and is next to him in an instant. Shushing him and holding him down, a cool hand on his chest. They wring out a cloth and dab his face with it. It’s cool against his burning, cracking skin and the doctor taps his finger over his chest periodically, keeping time with his labored breathing and slowly helping him breathe in time again. His breaths stay a little fast, either away. They whisper something to him or who knows who that he can’t hear and he’s gone again.

.

It’s cold when he wakes up again. Someone is sitting close to his cot, quick scraping noises echoing through his head and filling the tent. Hamilton. He shifts and the idiot immediately sets his things down, moving closer to him and grabbing his face. Aaron opens his eyes and Hamilton is so out of focus that he has to close his eyes again. Hamilton whispering his name over and over and over. His head hurts. His throat burns and he’s so cold. He’s shaking. Hamilton finally moves and then is back with water. None of it is done anything with. It stays on the ground next to the cot he lays in. Hamilton leaves eventually, grabbing his things and brushing the tent flap aside and Burr watches it flutter back closed behind him. Burr tries waiting until he cant hear his footsteps any longer, but he falls back under. He’s still cold.

.

He’s alone when he wakes up again. He stares at the tent’s ceiling. He cant hear past the dull ringing in his own ears. His shoulder hurts. His leg hurts, his head hurts and his vision swims but he leaves his eyes open to adjust. Someone walks in. Walks out and calls someone over. Burr listens to the groans and whines of other men in the tents nearby for a minute and twenty six seconds before Washington steps in. Burr watches him stand at the entrance of the tent and feels sick when Washington sits in the chair Hamilton had been sitting in before.

“Son,” And Burr frowns, going still. Washington's never called him that before. He decides to ignore it, maybe it was a slip up, or maybe he doesn’t mean it. Burr is cold. God, he’s so cold. It distracts him from Washington’s talking for a bit. Eventually the general notices, of course he does, Burr you idiot, and pauses where he is in whatever sentence he was speaking and then stands without another word. Walks away and Burr thinks maybe he’s left, maybe he can sleep again. But then the man walks back into sight with Burr’s jacket. Burr eyes the holes and bloody stains left on the jacket. It looks like someone had tried to clean it, and miserably failed. It’s laid over him and Burr curls up as much as he can under it. Looks back at the commander, waiting for him to continue a sentence that Burr hadn’t been able to hear before. Washington doesn’t continue on from the broken off rant he’d been invested in. Says, “What you did was reckless.” Burr’s breath catches in his throat. Okay. Burr knows that. No shit. Of course that's what this was about, nothing more. Washington wouldn’t be here any longer than a few minutes. He doesn’t care that much, to stay and try to figure out if Burr’s alright any more than he would another soldier that wasn’t one of his favourites. His thoughts linger on one french general and another loud mouthed aide. He swallows. Nods. He agrees. “It was unlike you, Burr. I don't understand what could have made you think that what you ended up doing was ever a good idea.” And Burr’s chest constricts. Okay. Yeah, no. He gets it. He doesn't understand his mindset going into the situation either. But-. But.

“I don’t..” He swallows around the dry pain in his throat. Washington waits, as patient as ever. He continues. “I don't regret it, sir.” And the corner of Washington’s mouth twitches up, just a bit. He stands up straighter, straightens his jacket, and nods at Burr. Says "Good. You shouldn't." and then leaves the tent. Hamilton bursts in afterward and launches himself at his cot. Burr hisses out a breath when it jostles his shoulder and Hamilton apologizes in his own dumb way for the next few minutes. It includes no ‘sorry’, instead consists of rambling paragraphs on what the world outside the tent has been like the past few days.

Eventually the tent is left in silence and Aaron mulls over everything. Feels shame curl back up into his chest when he thinks about a million ways he could have avoided the entire ordeal. He closes his eyes and then Hamilton is sitting next to him on the cot and is pushing him to the side. After asking Hamilton about visitors he happily explains that Washington had said no one was to bother him until tomorrow, late in the evening. So. So he moves willingly to the side and Hamilton lays next to him. They lay in silence staring at the ceiling of the tent for awhile before Hamilton and his nonexistent sense of personal space turn over and shoves them both into Burr’s side. Burr purposely jostles his good shoulder, the one Hamilton is laying by. Effectively displacing the aide. Whispers a fake “oops. Sorry.” One of which the idiot next to him takes and believes is sincere in stride.

.

Neither of them mention that night again, the close proximity and the conversations they’d tried to have. And Burr never figures out if what he thought he felt was real or something he imagined. He could have sworn he felt someone by the name of Alexander Hamilton get up and hold his hand before he fell into sleep. And he almost wishes Hamilton would bring it up again. Almost. He files it away in the back of his mind, either way. No need to get held up on selfish thoughts, ones he shouldn’t even be harboring. Burr goes back to writing letters and delivering other ones around camp a single day after that night in the cot. Hamilton comes and goes from Aaron’s own personal tent as if nothing had happened. Sometimes he stays the night with Aaron, against Burr’s own verbal responses. Hamilton never brings up anything that they talked about again, and no one asks him about it, so he assumes it is a secret and something not to be spoken about ever again.

He thinks about the conversations still. Wishes the other would bring up the convos they had, the night they bickered lightly during. But he won’t speak about it until asked by the man himself. Otherwise, the night never happened. Hamilton wasn’t anywhere near him that night, and the tent he was in was empty save for himself. A quiet night, a quiet secret held by the holder of all secrets.


End file.
